


To Keep walking

by Esper_Found



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Phil Coulson, BAMF Stiles, Derek is a Good Friend, F/F, F/M, I'm Sorry, I'm sorry if this sucks, I've killed stiles' family and i feel bad, Lydia is Perfect, M/M, My First Fanfic, Nice Jackson, Phil Coulson is Stiles Stilinski's Uncle, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Peter, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Scott is a Bad Friend, Slow Burn, Theo is a Little Shit, peter is still super crazy but not evil, seriously scott is the worst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esper_Found/pseuds/Esper_Found
Summary: He should have seen it coming... He should have for all his planning seen and expected this. Theo told him he had a choice... and when he didn't make one, Theo chose for him. and stiles fears he will never get the vision of his fathers blood seeping through his fingers and onto the cold floor as it soaks into the knees of his jeans where he is kneeled next to his fathers prone form out of his head.after all, the only luck he has ever had hasn't been good.All he has left is an uncle whom he barely remembers, and if his uncle uproots what is left of his life in beacon hills and drags him with him... then thats just fine with stiles... in fact he would be happy to never set foot in beacon hills for the rest of his life. but if his life has ever told him anything in his 16 years on this earth... its that life kind of enjoys screwing with him.but he's already in hell... so the only choice left is to keep walking.





	1. War worn and weary

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to Lauren... my Lauren. OCT 17,1989-OCT 9,2016  
> I loved you... I love you.

Thinking about it now, Stiles supposed it was probably a long time coming--if not for the fact that his dad was a sheriff, but because he was a Stilinski. After all, Stilinskis didn’t have a good record of living much past their 50s, if their lack of family was anything to go by. Maybe he was actually lucky to even make it to 40, considering the nightmares that blew through this town on a daily basis. 

Too logically, these thoughts floated through Stiles’s head as he sat there in the quiet of the hospital room, holding onto a dead man's hand with his own still covered in blood. In the back of his mind, it felt as if the last tether that held him to this earth and told him to keep living… fell away.

Riding on the coat tails of a despair that left him exhausted and devoid of most emotion, Stiles couldn’t even find the energy to cry, much less even process what was going on around him. He didn’t register that Melissa was herding him out of the room and into an empty hospital bed, and he didn’t hear the words she spoke or feel the delicate stroke of her fingers through his matted hair, the soft and meaningless platitudes whispered as he drifted off into sleep.

The first thing Stiles saw upon waking was soft, strawberry hair and sad eyes, and in an attempt to placate and soothe, he smiled at her. “Hey, Lyds, you’re looking better.” Especially considering the last time he'd seen her, she was bleeding from her head and had almost died… again. To be honest, he hadn’t seen her after having sat down with her mother and explained everything supernatural in an attempt to avoid a situation like that ever happening again.

Drowning in his thoughts, he was suddenly jarred to the present when Lydia spoke, all sad eyes and watery smile. “Hey you.” Taking a deep and steadying breath, she suddenly blurted, “Mom's taking me away; we leave at the end of the week.” Then she shut her eyes, awaiting the judgement, or the yelling…

But none of that came. Instead, she heard a sigh, equal measures relief and resignation, and as she peaked through her lashes, he spoke, voice rough with old grief. “Thank you… for coming and telling me. Thank you for staying alive. I needed to know you're safe, and if it means you leaving and never coming back? I'll take a few Skype calls and long distance roaming.”

A tear-filled laugh escaped her as she tightened her hold on his hand. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me now, Stilinski.”


	2. Collecting up the pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil gets the "call" and the avengers spring into action!... sorta... okay, they stand around worrying with their thumb up their butts because usually its Phil who tells them what to do. But hey, Tony does what he does best, and commandeers the situation. They learn Phil has family, and that Phil isn't as equipped to dealing with something so close to home. and that he can cuss... or for that matter become frazzled. meanwhile, small "almost" plans start to form in Stiles' head as he clings to the last bit of family he has left.  
> Also throw in a familiar estranged face, and Stiles is almost keeping his head just above water as he clings to his proverbial life raft in the form of an unlikely but familiar ally. and who knows... maybe some bromance?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so... i think i might have adjusted the writing style to sort of pick up the plot "pace" and if it is unsatisfactory let me know and i can redo it to fit better with chapter one... i was just a bit eager to get more characters out there and throw in a bit about good ol uncle phil, since we already know so much about stiles... and phil being the good spy he is, is a bit more in the dark. but this is the first look at the avengers, and i have yet to assign much personality to them just yet. but i will get to it when Stiles falls more into the picture. let me know if this is terrible and i'll redo it until your satisfied, mostly because i know I'm gonna suck at this till i get into some sort of groove? i would have had this out today but my beta reader was away from the internet... which is crazy lmao. but i trust her. also I may be redoing this chapter but i felt antsy not putting anything else out. the flow isn't quite as soft as it was in the first chapter and its not sitting well with me.

 

  
It happened when Phil was in the middle of an Avengers meeting, mitigating an argument between Tony Stark and Nick Fury.

He was already at the end of his rope with the other avengers silently sitting around the table, content to let the two hash it out. The door to the room opened, a door which only ever opened during a meeting under two circumstances:

Either the world was in danger… or someone important was dead.  
A woman the Avengers (Clint and Tony) had begun to dub as ‘Bad News Brenda’ (it didn’t matter that her name was Sherry) stormed in with purpose.

Instantly, the room fell silent as each of the Avengers tensed in mock ready for a fight, unsure about the reason for her visit.

They watched as the woman quietly approached Phil, handing him a file and whispering in his ear, prelude to Phil letting loose a string of curse words that fell like lead on superheroes’ ears.

None of them (even Fury) had ever heard the agent curse before, much less witness him losing his cool.

Instantly, as if called to sortie, everyone in the room stood in unison, worry plain on their faces, moving to stand in front of Phil.

As the words fell from ‘Bad News Brenda’s’ mouth, Phil’s heart seized with worry and an instant need for more information as he flipped through the autopsy reports of his now-deceased brother-in-law.

It wasn’t pretty; the wounds were reminiscent of an animal attack. As he looked over the report, his heart fell into his stomach as he read the first on the scene was his nephew. Meaning that he had had to watch his own father bleed out and die in front of him.

Stiles was now witness to both his parents' deaths.

Granted, the death of his father was more abrupt than that of his mother, but it still meant that he had now witnessed both his parents dying in front of him, had held both of their hands as the life ebbed away between his fingers. And Phil… Phil would wish that fate on no man, much less a boy before his prime. And even less… Stiles.

Releasing a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he'd been holding, he sat down at the meeting table, completely unaware of the tension of those around him. Dropping the files on the table, he was startled out of his thoughts by the quick hands of Tony Stark going for them at breakneck speed, beating the reaction time of Fury by a good 15 seconds.

Glancing over everything, Tony called for Jarvis to pull all the files and information up and onto the review board for everyone to see, leaving Phil in too much shock to be offended at the intrusion to his privacy.

With the information out there for everyone to see, Barton, being one of the only ones really aware Phil even had a nephew, came up behind him to rest a hand on the back of his neck, grounding him through his grief.

Phil chanced a glance around the room, seeing the grim faces of each of the heroes. Tony, surprising everyone except Steve, seemed the most upset even next to Phil, but quickly schooled it behind his business mask as he started digging into the incident reports.

Files involving both the Sheriff and his son were displayed on the board, the Avengers’ faces growing grimmer by the second as death report after death report appeared in succession. 

All included either the Sheriff or his son, the latter as witness, to unsolved crime after crime… and a dauntingly large amount of animal-based death reports and missing persons reports in the past year and a half alone.

Finally Tony spoke with all the unbridled curiosity and determination of a genius with unanswered questions.

“Hey, we’re gonna figure this out. I’ll have Jarvis continue digging, and Natasha, I’m sure, will be glad to help,” he said, looking up to the red-haired assassin as she nodded her head in assent.

“I suggest you take one of my jets out as soon as you are ready. Anything you think you need to handle here, I can assure you we can handle, at least until you return.” 

And not even waiting for Phil’s acceptance, Tony was already on the phone with Pepper explaining the situation.

Suddenly turning to Phil with his hand over his phone, he said, “And take one of us with you? Actually, take two.” He waved his hand in the direction of the rest of the Avengers to give the final decision. “You guys figure out who is going with him. I'll take care of the ride.” He turned back to Pepper on the phone.

Instantly, with his hand still on Phil’s neck and squeezing slightly, Clint spoke up. “I call shotgun.” Glancing up to Natasha, he spoke for her: “And I’m sure Nat needs a vacation from these guys.”

At that Thor and Steve, who had been mostly silent, grumbled something along the lines of also needing vacations but were immediately reprimanded by Fury,the man speaking with all the authority of someone running a secret organisation of spies and superheroes.

“Alright, I’ll allow you two, but Steve and Thor, I need you here, and I’m sure Agent Coulson can take care of himself in some podunk town, despite the alarming number of homicide cases in this ‘Beacon Hills’.”

With that, the meeting was dismissed with Tony and Fury staying to talk in hushed tones between each other, Pepper joining in on speaker phone.

Phil let himself be carted off by Nat and Clint to get ready for the evening flight to Beacon Hills, a place he hadn’t visited since the death of his sister. He just hoped she would forgive him for not keeping a better eye on the boy, who seemed to be so quick to jump into trouble.  
  
~ ~ ~  
  
Stepping off the plane and onto Beacon Hills soil, he found it disconcerting. The déjà vu hit him with all the weight of a cement truck as his taxi made its way towards the hospital.

Swinging his feet out of the car and onto the pavement outside Beacon Hills Memorial, He was hit by overlapping visions of the last time he had spoken to Claudia… unforgotten promises to look after her son and husband. 

Phil’s steps faltered at the realisation that he had failed to uphold the last request she ever made of him.

Noticing he was freezing up, both Nat and Clint bumped his shoulders, knocking him out of his grief-stricken guilt trip.

Nat spoke, all hushed tones and calm lilt. “Phil, breathe. He needs you, and we will be here the whole time.”

Nodding, Phil straightened his back and left the two assassins in the waiting room as he made his way to the front desk to inquire about the whereabouts of the younger Stilinski.

Standing in the doorway, looking at the hollow eyes of the teen, Phil almost felt like he himself was the harbinger of Stiles' misfortune. 

Always only showing up at the teen's worst moments in life. Like a beacon for the deaths of his parents, a silent reminder that this was real, and they were really gone… The thought settled like lead in his stomach.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Phil mentally prepared himself for whatever the teen would throw at him, hoping it would only be anger and not accusations, seeing as his absence since his sister Claudia’s funeral was a reminder of exactly how little he had been there for Stiles and John.

Steeling himself, he stepped into the room, clearing his throat, breaking the teen out of his clouded gaze and back into the room in an instant, turning his sad brown eyes that reminded Phil so much of Claudia’s toward him, and he did what Phil was unprepared for.

He smiled. Sad and hesitant, like it was there for the people around him and not because he had something to smile about, and Phil froze in his tracks as a piece of his heart broke.  
Looking at the last of his family, of his blood.

The last thing he had of his sister, that he had neglected and ignored for the better part of six years, save for birthday and holiday cards. A deep-seated regret started to bloom in his gut, causing a wave of nausea. His sister's son, his nephew, looked like he had been through not just one, but several wars.

From top to bottom, the dark bruises beneath his eyes, to the shifty worried twitches that screamed of the remnants of nightmares and months of untreated PTSD. Phil’s heart sank further and further as he realised his nephew looked more like a feral scared animal than a human being. He wondered in the back of his mind what Stiles and his father had managed to get themselves into, and cursed himself for never thinking to even check in or call.

But it would stop now (it had to). They were the remains of their family, all each other had. And Phil was determined to salvage and keep safe what was left of the skittish teen. 

Walking slowly up to the bed where Stiles sat, he shuffled awkwardly before slowly setting his hand on the teen's shoulder, not missing the tremor and twitch before Stiles settled and leaned into Phil's hand. They both took a breath.

~~~

After Lydia and her mother had gone, leaving Stiles alone with his thoughts in the hospital room, he had immediately sat up, gathering his ideas and spreading them across his mental chessboard of how to proceed.

He was so busy cataloging and figuring out potential allies and soon-to-be enemies that he didn’t notice the other figure in the room until he heard them clear their throat, supposedly to draw his attention.

The idea that someone had been watching him as he was deep in thought pulled taut the nerves beneath the surface, and slowly he turned his head to take in who had entered his room space. Only to make eye contact with a familiar face. The face of family. His uncle Phil, who, while frowning, slowly approached him and settled his hand on his shoulder. Stiles, so unused to physical contact and still sore from his run in with Donovan, flinched but quickly settled into the hand.

And suddenly it felt like he could breathe again. Like the hand on his shoulder could serve as a new anchor to keep him tethered… so he sank into the contact, took a deep, steadying breath, and spoke to his uncle for the first time in six years with a voice rough from disuse: “Looks like it's just me and you now, huh, Uncle Phil?” He laughed, bitter and stilted. “So what's the plan?”

Even though Stiles had many plans for many different scenarios in his head, they were all for fighting, all for survival. Embarrassingly enough, none of them had accounted for this… for being alone. Not for the first time since the revelation of werewolves and hunters, he had no idea of how to proceed or where to go. Left afloat in a sea of grief layered upon one misfortune after another. 

So he decided to do what Melissa so often requested, and leave it in the hands of adults.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t do something about Theo.

Shaking himself out of encroaching dark thoughts, he turned his eyes back up to Phil, a small smile of familial hope still lingering on his face. He hoped and prayed that the last of his family didn’t decide to leave him in this hell.

~~~

After speaking to Melissa McCall just outside of the hospital room, Phil had a good idea of how to proceed, having been given the paperwork and the talk about what to do.

In the event of the Sheriff's death before Stiles turned eighteen, everything went to Phil to manage until Stiles was of age. And leveling him with the look only a mother could for her children, Melissa then proceeded to tell him exactly what would happen should he ever abuse his position… followed so quickly by a hug and an “I’m sorry for your loss” that he was left standing at the door to Stiles's hospital room feeling all the emotional whiplash left in her wake.

So Phil did what he did best as a S.H.E.I.L.D agent and made a plan to manage the situation.

Sitting down next to Stiles, he explained exactly what was going to happen and when and how.

“Stiles, I know you probably want to stay here for the rest of your school year, so you can be near your friends--” The slight twitch at the word ‘friends’ didn’t go unnoticed. “--but I have a very important job in New York, and honestly I would feel a lot better about everything if you were to come with me to New York.

“Not that I don’t trust you or have faith that you would be okay to stay down here, and Melissa has expressed that she would be happy to have you with her, but I’m gonna be dirty and play the family card.”

Phil slid his arm around Stiles's shoulder and held on like he was afraid the boy might bolt. “You are all I have left, and I’ll be damned if I leave you here. You are coming with me.”

As if he didn’t even know he had been holding his breath, Stiles exhaled and nodded his head in relief. “I don’t have a problem coming with you, but can you give me some time to get everything together? I have a lot of things to take care of to make sure I don’t have to come back randomly during the school year or something.” It was as much detail as Stiles could currently manage and was vague enough to give him leeway.

Nodding his understanding, Phil, now fully hugging the teen, gripped him a little harder. 

“I’m not going to ask what's been going on or what happened to you just yet, but when we get to New York I would really like an explanation because you look like you have been through the ringer.”

Lifting his head to look Phil in the eyes, Stiles saw the resolve and simply nodded his head in acquiescence, and rubbing his hand over thinned lips, he spoke barely above a whisper. “Yeah... yeah I can do that, Uncle Phil.”

Then hugging his uncle like a drowning man latching onto a life raft in the middle of a sea, he spoke so softly that Phil barely caught it: “Thank you.”

After ceremonial goodbyes and awkward emotion-avoiding conversations, Phil left the hospital with the promise of seeing Stiles in two weeks on the first flight to New York after his father’s funeral. Stiles supposed it was about as much as he would get with his Uncle’s high demand job, so steeling himself for what was to come next, he stood up and decided to brave going home.

~ ~ ~  
  
He tried his best. He really did. It’s just that… well, you can’t really prepare yourself for this sort of emotional terrorism… walking through your once childhood home only to realize that’s all it really is. Your childhood. And Stiles was painfully aware of how far behind he had left that. He could barely recall a day since the start of junior year when he didn’t feel somewhat of a threat to his life. And he knew it had taken its toll.

He stared at the old worn threads on the couch in the den, as if they held the very answers to the universe… or at least his immediate problems. He looked back at the last year and a half, trying to pinpoint where it all really started to go to hell. 

But all that really did was cement how very much all of this was his fault.

A short trip into the woods that set in motion a series of tragic events that would cause pain and death to those he loved most… It was so vividly his fault. All the lies and petty fibs to cover sleepless nights and familial arguments. All the fighting, running, and killing.

Childish hero-complex ridden youths trying and failing to keep one little town from falling into the proverbial mouth of hell, ruining themselves in the slow and torturous process of battling a supernatural war that had been raging around the world for centuries under the radar of humanity's thin veil.

Fighting to shake himself from the drowning, crushing fear of the future, he supposed that was as philosophical as he would ever get about the whole thing. After all, if Stiles was anything, it was practical. And in the face of the facts, there wasn’t much use dwelling on the nightmares of the past, not when they already haunted his dreams. 

No, he would not bring them into the light of day as well.

Quietly making his way through the downstairs, he paused at the threshold of the kitchen, running his fingers over the pencil lines of a tradition carried on to measure the height of his quickly growing childhood self with the passing of each year. Starting from the lowest rung, his chest constricted at the sight of his mother's handwriting and again at the age 5 marker when he read out Scotty’s name as well. All the way up until age ten, and the handwriting changed from his mother's to his. The marks continued all the way up until they had hit high school… until they had hit that wall known as werewolfdom.

Stiles realised he would never again have that. He wouldn’t have his mom or Scott or even this house, riddled so much with memories that he was physically drowning in them, so much so that he almost missed the shadow hovering at the front door of his house. Almost.

Stiles looked up just in time to watch as Theo, all predatory grace, glided forward on silent feet to pin him at the base of the stairs. And as eyes flashed in warning for his silence, Stiles clammed up, allowing Theo his villain speech.

Or at least he would have , had he not been barrelled into by someone carrying with them the force of a freight train rolling down a hill.

In the back of his mind, Stiles was sure the speech would have been pretty evil, in all its lack of subtlety not unlike that of a Bond villain. But he couldn’t really find it in himself to care at the moment while he watched with a sort of unbelieving awe as none other than ‘I’m a douchebag’ Jackson proceeded to quite literally wipe the floor with Theo. 

The latter, who after being thrown out the door, took it upon himself to vanish from the property at unprecedented speed with the fleeting promise to return.

Slightly winded from the run-in with Theo, Jackson straightened his clothes and slammed the front door, giving him time to catch his breath. Jackson suddenly turned around, flashing that almost maddening supermodel-level smile as he held his hand out to Stiles, who was still sprawled along the base of the stairs.

“Just can’t stay out of trouble, can you, Stilinski?"

Lifting Stiles up as if he weighed less than a feather, Jackson proceeded to pat him down in a once-over looking for any sign of injury, carefully avoiding the still-sore wound from Donovan.

The words broke Stiles out of whatever awe-induced stupor he had seemed to be caught in, and began to stutter half-finished questions. "Wha… how?… but…" and still couldn’t find the right words.

A low chuckle rumbled from Jackson's chest as he stared back in amusement at his friend, who, for once in his life, found himself speechless. “I finally come back and within the first few seconds of seeing you, someone was trying to kill you? I swear some things are never gonna change.”

Stiles, having now found his words, shouted, “What the hell are you doing here, Whittemore?! The last time you emailed me, you were still in London! That was literally less than a week ago!”

The words rushed out with the creeping anxiety from the aftermath of his run-in with Theo so soon after the last encounter, which resulted in his father's death.

His breath caught, as an invisible clutch seized his lungs before he could get any more words out.

Seeing the encroaching panic attack and hearing the runaway of his heartbeat, Jackson’s easy grin fell from his face in a blink. Grabbing Stiles’s hand in his, he used his other to rest on the other boy's shoulder and guide him to a sitting position. He placed Stiles's hand over his heart and began to take large, deep breaths. “Stiles, I need you to look at me. Listen to my breathing. Feel my chest.” 

After a few minutes of soft speaking and eye contact, Stiles had regulated his breathing, and his heart rate fell. Stiles began to try to tug his hand back from Jackson's in embarrassment.

Jackson, realising his hesitation and embarrassment, latched on and wouldn’t let go. “No, you are fine. We all panic, and you had every reason to panic. I mean Jesus, holy shit, I don’t even know what to say. Actually… was that Theo? I should have killed him. I’m going to kill him… No wait, are you okay? Fuck, of course you aren’t, I just said you aren’t okay and I’m rambling…

That’s what you’re supposed to do. This is awful. Seriously, I need to be stopped. I’m definitely making this worse… but seriously… how are you?” all rushed out of Jackson's mouth like the word vomit that Stiles was most known for.

It kind of drove home how much they had really rubbed off on each other, (not like that Stiles, get your mind out of the gutter), in the months they had been Skyping and emailing. It had started after the nogitsune incident after Jackson made the bold move to contact him when Lydia had told him every gruelling detail. Jackson had said he felt compelled to reach out, knowing just what it was like to be used in that way.

So chillingly aware of what he could be right now if not for the not-so-small part Stiles played in his return to the cusp of werewolf life, he was thankful… But more than that, he was worried, and could sort of understand having one's body commandeered for murder and mayhem.

One Skype call turned into hundreds of Skype calls and emails, and they could be considered no less than friends. And past all of Stiles’s spastic sarcasm was a guy as brilliant if not more clever than Lydia… and behind all his ‘douchebaggery’ was a guy who treated his friends like gold and whose pop culture references could rival Stiles’s. 

Gathering his thoughts, Jackson suddenly engulfed the smaller teen in a hug and spoke with conviction. “Lydia called me after you saved her, and your latest email left me a bit worried, combined with the fact your phone kept going to voicemail and that I couldn’t get in touch with anyone for the past week… I got into town this morning and was immediately bombarded by Lydia ranting about this Theo dude and…” Suddenly finding himself choking on the words he struggled to grind out, “and also about your Father… so I figured I would come here… so you didn’t have be in this house alone.” 

Abruptly with all the rage Stiles had never seen in Jackson before, he spoke evenly with thinly veiled malice. “And it’s a good thing I did; how did that bastard even end up here? What does he want? I know you’ve been keeping things from me in those emails…”

Stiles blanched at the last words as he tried to find the a way to explain everything with as few words as possible. Because it had been a long day, a long week. Hell, it'd been a long year. And

Stiles wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed and sleep for no less than a week.

In the back of his mind, he wondered how difficult it would be for a human being to hibernate, but quickly shook the thought from his head as he realised he was beginning to derail. Squeezing the other hand that he still held, Stiles spoke quietly.

“Jax, as happy and thankful as I am to have you here, and as much as I would love to answer all of your questions, I’m just… I’m just really tired.” Sighing with the weight and weariness of what his life had become, he lifted his head to stare into worried blue eyes. “Can we… I don’t know. Do this later? I promise I will tell you everything.” And then with a smile: “Don’t I always?”

Flickering his gaze over Stiles's face, Jackson finally began to take in the smaller teen's appearance… and he was just that. Smaller than he should be, missing weight that his layered shirts couldn’t hide. The pallor of his skin made the bruises beneath his eyes stand out in stark contrast.

He took in all the things that couldn’t be seen over a Skype feed and mentally cursed himself for not coming back as soon as he knew something was wrong. But in his defence, Stiles had a way of keeping things to himself with more conviction than that of the Secret Service or the CIA. And Jackson supposed he was lucky to be told anything at all, given the rocky fifteen-odd years before their friendship. Glancing back up into broken caramel eyes, he found his heart breaking from all the unspoken grief hanging over his head.

Gently pulling Stiles from his spot on the stairs, Jackson gracefully and without warning proceeded to heft him over his shoulder like a bag of squawking potatoes. He quickly made his way up the stairs and deposited the flailing teen upon his bed with a gentleness Stiles was unused to.

“The sooner we sleep, the sooner I get my answers,” he said and began pulling out sweats and old novelty tees like he lived there, tossing them gracelessly at Stiles's startled face. Jackson didn't miss the small smirk that formed on his face as they both changed into the sleepwear.

Stiles, being as vigilant in his observations as always, noticed the suitcase in the corner of the room that told him the werewolf had already snuck into his room once before. He also noticed that Jackson made no move towards it and instead opted to wear Stiles's brand-less rumpled clothes. Huffing out a small but genuine laugh, he chanced a glance up. “Aww Jax, you do care.”

Jackson's eyes softened at the teen's insecure smile. “Of course I do. And had you actually told me what was going on, I would have been here way before now,” he huffed out in mock annoyance, as he proceeded to not so subtly tuck himself behind Stiles on the bed, pulling him back and into his chest, waiting for the teen to relax into his position of little spoon. He mumbled into his shoulder, “Now sleep, so I can get my answers.”

Stiles was only slightly embarrassed by the new sensation of being spooned by Jackson Whittemore, a guy who a year previous would have just as soon punched him as look at him. He quickly settled into his hold, feeling safe for the first time since Theo blew into town.

As his breathing began to even out and consciousness began to slip away, he breathed out a small "thank you" and almost didn’t notice how Jackson's hold on him tightened ever so slightly, as he heard “I got you” while drifting into unconsciousness.

And for the first time since everything started, he slept a dreamless dream.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that both me and this fic is such a mess, you guys don't deserve my fickleness. sorry!!! if theres anything wrong with it let me know, hearing criticism kind keeps my anxiety down because it lets me know i can make it better for you guys to read.  
> and also I know it seems kinda like a Jackson/stiles and who know maybe ill throw that in there but right now its more like Stiles is left without family and pack, and Jackson is sort of keeping him afloat you know?


	3. Pieces sacrificed pieces gained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles starts to get his shit together, and realizes he isn't the only one Theo has hurt. Pieces on the board start to come together as he starts to focus on what needs to be done. he pays a visit to deaton and gains nome important knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay guys I'm updating as quickly as i can, i got a new beta reader who is honestly an angel and my only saving grace at this point so thanks to Batgirl394 for basically being the only reason any chapters are coming out. also guys i know this fic is all over the place, but i'm honestly trying. and I'm in it for the long haul so it will get updated regularly, until its finished.  
> also... i forgot about the existence of Malia... so i'm pretending she doesn't exist... and has never existed... i am blissfully unaware of this character called malia, who are you talking about? i don't know, nor have i ever heard of this "malia"... if you yell at me enough i might change my mind... but i didn't like her character development, or the relationship with stiles so I'm pretending it never happened okay? this is my fic and i'll do what i want... unless someone can convince me otherwise...

Chapter 3: Pieces sacrificed pieces gained

  
The alarm blared loudly in his ears. The relentless screaming pulled him from his first nightmare-less sleep in what felt like years. For that millisecond between wake and dream, he forgot.

Jackson’s arm came down from behind him, smashing the snooze on the clock, literally smashing the button right through to the table top, and his stomach dropped at the realisation that his life was in tatters.

His father was dead. Those words his father told him in a drunken stupor were more foreshadowing than alcohol-induced rage ramble. He had killed his mother. His father. His friends. Like a cursed object that brought destruction to everything it touched.

He didn’t realise he was screaming until strong arms snaked around him, pinning his arms to him in a vice to keep him from digging his nails into his chest, trying to dig out the emptiness he felt. It took an eternity to breathe again. The darkness at the edges of his vision took over, and he was gone into the dreamless void.

~~~

Jackson didn’t know what to do.

He wasn’t equipped for emotions in general, much less the blanket of anger and despair that fell over the room. He choked on it. Drowned in it. He couldn’t even begin to fathom how Stiles himself was feeling. Sure, Jackson’s real parents were dead, but he hadn’t witnessed them die. He had a family--adopted--but they were still his parents. Still alive. Watching as Stiles struggled to free his arms before he passed out, the need to do something, anything, overwhelmed him.

He needed someone who could understand. He needed Derek. But Derek was gone, not seen since the Mexico incident with Peter. Peter would know, because he always seemed to know, and he would understand, but would he help? Probably not. But at least he knew where Peter was. He could… ask him? He wasn’t sure if Peter was allowed visitors. Stiles had mentioned going to see Peter, though he couldn’t recall how many times or if he had even gotten in to see him. But he could try. For Stiles, he could try. He had to do something before the guilt killed him.

Besides, the older wolf seemed to have a soft spot for the teen. Sort of.

Rolling Stiles into a blanket burrito to sleep off his panic attack, he surveyed the perimeter and slipped out the window to head to the nightmare on the hill that was Eichen House. He prayed Peter cared enough to do something, anything. He would take anything he could get.

With Lydia currently unavailable, he was basically trying to pull allies from thin air. With Theo still on the loose with those hybrid betas, dubbed by the banshee herself--and Stiles in no shape to make a plan--who better to make a plan than the Zombiewolf mastermind of nefariousness himself? Right?  
 

—————  
 

Waking up again, Stiles was more prepared for the day and, recalling the earlier freakout, was thankful that Jackson wasn’t around to catch his secondhand embarrassment. Sitting up and scrubbing his hand through his hair, yeah... he probably smelled pretty ripe and maybe a little like blood. He felt like he could still see it on him… underneath his fingernails. Snapping out of his focus, clenching his shaking hands, he decided he absolutely needed a shower.

The heat of the water was a welcome reprieve as it beat down on his sore muscles, pounding out the aches and unlocking his joints. He melted to the shower floor and curled up under the steady stream. Focusing on his breathing as he scrubbed shampoo through his hair, he watched as the small flakes of blood fell: tints of brown and red washing down the drain. He wasn’t sure if it was his or his father's blood or if it even mattered whose it was.

He didn’t know how long he was in the shower, but it let his thoughts swirl, moving pieces on his mental chessboard. He needed to be done with crying and freaking out. He could cry in New York, away from this damned town. That was exactly what this place was if he didn’t do something. This whole place was damned, and he didn't expect Scott and his rag-tag team of wannabe vigilantes to save it. Not this time. He just needed more chess pieces. Or anyone, really. He had Jackson, and Jackson had his back. He wasn’t sure if he could ask that of Jackson. He’d already had his fight, both here and in London. Stiles couldn’t drag him into this hell again.

Especially when he wasn’t even sure he’d make it out. He had to try. After all, he was still invested in the people of this town, who he once called family, friends, allies. No matter what they thought of him. No, there would be time enough for grief when the crisis had passed. For now, he would do what he had always done: Make a plan and fight till he couldn’t stand, and even then, he would keep fighting.

But first, a quick trip to Deaton.

The annoyingly vague man had some things for him, and he supposed, with the nightmares like Theo, the dread doctors and their very own litter of genetic abominations around, now would be a good time to test out some of the things he had ordered from Deaton, and to be honest, he really needed all the extra help he could get.  
 

Drying himself off and musing over ideas of magic and strategy, he almost missed the sound of the door bell. He briefly wondered who it was, since the only ones who would visit him now, would either just climb in through his window or tear the door down--without knocking, much less ringing the doorbell. Throwing on his too-big clothes, he grabbed the rowan and ash baseball bat he had Deaton make for him; the last one shattered over the head of the freaky werewolf twins from hell. Weapon in hand, he made his way to the door. Moments later, he found himself with a young werewolf quickly snaking his arms around him like a clingy octopus.

“L…Liam?” Noticing the younger boy tighten his hold and whimper slightly, he internally cursed for forgetting to check on the boy sooner… but he was a bit preoccupied.

Trying to both console and gather more information, he tried to make his voice as steady as possible. “Hey, hey, Liam, what’s wrong? You gotta talk to me if you want me to help. Tell me what happened.”

In a pained whine, Liam managed to grit out, “I almost killed him. I almost killed Scott.” Terror shot through him realizing he nearly lost something else he loved. Stiles almost missed the rest of the story the young wolf rushed out, as if he hadn’t had anyone else to tell it to, and suddenly, like an anvil from the sky, it hit Stiles: he didn’t have anyone else.

Tightening his arms around the teen, he did his best to soothe and figure out what happened through the constant stream of guilty murmuring spilling from the boy’s mouth.  
Of course, it turns out that Theo not only managed to kill his father but almost succeeded in killing Scott, too, and a flash of hot rage ran through him at the realisation that Theo had successfully rendered everything he cared about, his pack, his family, to nothing more than broken pieces.

Theo was not going to have an easy death if Stiles had any say in it. And die he would.

There wasn’t a choice. He didn’t care about Scott's Boy Scout code. Theo was a full-blown, irredeemable psychopath and a murderer who couldn’t be taken down by normal laws or code.

No, he had to go before Stiles could ever feel safe leaving for New York.  
   
~~~  
   
Liam, the poor kid, ended up crying himself to sleep in his guilt. Sprawled out over the length of the couch with his head in Stiles’ lap, as the older softly carded his fingers through his hair.  
After a while, Stiles glanced up at the wall clock and figured now would be as a good time as any to go see Deaton about that horse. Or in this case, arsenal of magical weapons that they had talked about after the Alpha Incident. And the Darach. And the Witches coven and rogue wendigo over the summer.

Honestly, just a whole slew of evil. If he weren't afraid of being cursed from this life into the next, he would have suggested digging up that shitty tree stump a long time ago. Calling all these creatures to it constantly.

There had to be a better way of dealing with it, but if there was, they had yet to find it. Even after sitting and talking with Peter nearly everyday about it over the course of the summer. 

Peter did, however, share with him all his supernatural knowledge, which was some of the best conversations he had all year, as they casually spoke over their ongoing game of chess. If he was being honest with himself, it was the most fun he had had in a while. Since when, and if, anyone from his pack ever got in touch with him, it was only because they needed something or something terrible had happened--which was par for the course that was his life in Beacon Hills, he supposed.

Placing a pillow gently beneath Liam’s head, he quietly got up from the couch and grabbed his keys from the peg, and hopped into his father’s car and drove to Deaton’s. He was due for a visit to the good Doctor, after all; he still owed Deaton money for the shattered windows. It was only polite, especially since it was mostly his fault they were broken.  
The visit to Deaton went about as well as expected: less then informative and more vague than he would ever get used to. On the plus side, he now had a myriad of magical tomes to fuel his spark.

He had brushed up on the latest development that was his magical abilities, soaking up information like a sponge, as well as learning about and collecting various herbs and a brand new shiny magical stick. Okay, so he wasn’t exactly sure how to use said magical stick, or his spark, but, by God, he would figure it out. He’d have to.

Or risk never being able to properly defend himself against the nightmare that had become his life.

He prayed there was some sort of instruction manual among the books Deaton had gifted him in that weirdly infuriating way of “not helping” but giving one a means to “help themselves.”

Honestly, Stiles would never be a druid. Mostly because he was incapable of looking at a situation without being insanely biased, but also because he had an opinion, and people were gonna hear it whether they wanted to or not. Usually the situation was the latter of those two choices, but he would never be able to just “be,” and if a druid had to maintain democracy and balance and all that jazz, it was probably the one thing that Stiles could never do.

Maybe he would be a witch, or a wizard, or whatever the hell a spark was supposed to be, because ‘Vague Douchey Druid’ was simply NOT an option.

Upon walking into the house, Stiles was greeted with the annoying sounds of his house phone and the sight of Liam awkwardly sitting in the centre of the couch like he was forced to sit there or was being held against his will.

Stiffly, he turned to look at Stiles with wide eyes-- (He'd have to have a talk with Scott about teaching people the “puppy eyes,” damnit!) --like he didn’t know what he was supposed to do: leave or do something. Stiles, raising an eyebrow, pointed at the phone that was now in a constant state of ringing.

Liam cleared his throat.  
“The phone keeps ringing.” At Stiles’ withering ‘I’m surrounded by idiots’ look, he ventured to explain further. “People keep, uh, calling about the funeral. I’m sorry. And uh, they keep sending their condolences, and one lady dropped off a casserole, and I didn’t know what to do, so I put it on the counter, and… and” Liam stopped when Stiles laid his hand on top of Liams head, stroking absently, almost as if it was comfort for Stiles and not him.

Stiles, realising that Liam didn’t want to go home, didn’t even think about removing his hand, and spoke softly.

“Thank you, Liam, for telling me. You did a good job, and I seriously appreciate it. I’ll take care of the phone calls. If you want to borrow some clothes and take a shower, I’ll heat up some of the casserole, and then we can figure out what we are gonna do about you and Scott, okay?”

Liam, looking immensely relieved, nodded and bounded up the stairs two at a time, leaving Stiles fondly shaking his head.

Stiles, glancing at the answering machine reading '12new,' looked heavenward and prayed for the patience to deal with everything.

~~~

Of course, Jackson comes back to find Liam face down asleep, curled around a casserole at the dinner table, and Stiles muttering under his breath and slamming the kitchen phone against the wall… repeatedly.

He snorts under his breath as he comes up behind the frustrated teen and removes the phone from his hands and puts it back on the receiver.  
It immediately starts ringing again.

Stiles deflates and rests his body against Jackson, trusting him to hold him up. “Another one. Again. No, the funeral isn't set yet. No, don't send casseroles. I will be doomed to answer phones for eternity, and if I get one more offer of a casserole, I swear I will set this house on fire and fake my death.”

Jackson just rolls his eyes, taking everything in stride, and looks to the kid at the table for explanation. But all he gets are the soft snores of a young sleeping wolf.  
In the face of Stiles' exasperation, Jackson finds himself rather reluctant to tell Stiles about his trip to see Peter.

 

 

 


	4. Over the hill and into the asylum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson goes to visit Peter, and tries to get his bearing about where they stand. old stories, are hashed out, and loyalties are explored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to my beta! Batgirl394 who not only fixes all of my chapters but also helps me figure out what the heck i'm doing and where all this is headed... also... this series might be really long... since i haven't even hit new york yet... yikes. oh well onward and upward!  
> Basically this is just the convo between jax and peter... i decided to break it up between characters for the most part... mostly for me, because I am horrendous at conversations... like really bad... awful even. if there are any inconsistencies, or anything you are unsatisfied with let me know! I'm learning as i go!...

 

The trip to Eichen to see Peter actually went better than expected, which led Jackson to being almost optimistic... to see that someone actually gave a shit about Stiles besides him.

A little bit of paperwork and suddenly he was standing in front of the plexiglass to Peter’s cell. To be honest, he was expecting gross cells and evil orderlies from the way Stiles often spoke of the place. But it was deceptively clean, and if he wasn’t a werewolf he wouldn’t have noticed the terrible remarks the doctors and workers alike spewed towards the supernaturally inclined… but he wasn’t anywhere near the human side, for all he knew it was the same there as well.

With the kind of grace that came from being born a predator, Peter rose from his seat on pristine white sheets and came to stand face to face with the younger beta, Jackson almost missed the way Peter clung to the bars on the bed nearest the door.

Weak from the Wolfsbane he could smell permeating the air no doubt.

“Ah… and to what, pray tell do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

If Jackson wasn’t a werewolf he wouldn’t have heard the up tic of worry, or seen the strain in his jawline. Peter was well aware of the one thing they both had in common, and that he was here at all was not a good sign.

“It’s Stiles… his father is dead, killed by Theo, who _almost_ managed to kill him yesterday as well. If i hadn’t gotten there… I…” a loud resounding crack echoed through the cell, and Jackson glanced up to witness the bar beneath Peter’s hand bent nearly in two. He could feel the rage radiating off the older wolf as his eyes flickered between electric blue and his usual cool blue hue…

Jackson found himself faltering to continue, but he plowed through the explanation of how Stiles defended himself agains’t Donovan, and Scott had done nothing to help him.

From what he managed to get from Lydia, Theo was now in the process of leading his new hybrid zombie babies (thanks to the nemeton and some super freaky science) to complete whatever nefarious plots the Dread Doctors had gleaned compelling enough to _use_ said unruly teens. **All** while managing to kill Stiles’ father, and very nearly Stiles himself in the process…

After he was through with the retelling of everything, he realized that they were both struggling to keep their inner wolves at bey, heavy breathed rage lingering in the silent aftermath.

Peter, after reigning in his anger, continued the conversation with ease, filling in the blanks.

“Let me get this straight… Scott, and his little pack of puppies, failed to listen to him, **and** his warnings about Theo... and now, Stiles is **alone** , in a house that he has been almost killed in before…”

Jackson shrank back, deflating slightly.

”Y-yeah, I didn’t wan’t to leave him alone, but… I can’t do this alone, _we_ can't do this alone. Theo has a whole pack now, and is being backed by the dread doctors. I don’t give a damn about the rest of them, who left him alone, and without help, who never believed him...” he clenched his fists, and in almost a whisper “but they **can’t** have Stiles…”

Running his hand through his hair and over his face he continued. “I can’t do this alone. But I know Stiles won’t leave until Theo is dead, and the Dread Doctors are no more. I also don’t know where Derek is, and I just… will you help us or not Peter? I need to know…”

After a heavy second of silence, Peter took a seat on his bed and let Jackson hold his breath as he gathered his thoughts.

“He would have made a fine wolf, you know?”

Confused, Jackson tilted his head, so Peter continued softly, a fond smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

“All that loyalty. All that need to protect the people he has chosen to protect. Never going back on his word, **despite**  what he says, and what he has to do to keep it…”

Snorting Jackson hums in agreement.

“Yeah, so much it’s going to get him killed…”

Something bitter settled in Jackson’s chest at his own words.

“And look what it’s gotten him,” the younger werewolf growled. “He just keeps losing things, trying to keep the people he loves alive, people who haven’t done shit for him. With no regard for himself.”

A sigh from the other side of the glass pulls Jackson from his musing.

Peters eyes darken.

“He was the only one, you know? Who was against putting me in here. Who even came to visit me. Even told me about the pack... I could hear it in his voice, when something changed, when it wasn’t his pack anymore, but he still… He still kept trying to protect them.”

Trying to rein in his thoughts Peter fondly shook his head and continued.

“One day, and I don’t know when, he just decided I was one of his, and he came here every weekend like clock work,” he gestured to the chess board and books scattered about the room. “He brought me all this, asked me every day if I was okay. “

Peter’s eyes darkened, “Then, he started getting more and more quiet. But every time I enquired, he would just smile, and spout off a damned wiki fact…”

Clenching his fists he turned his gaze to Jackson.

“You have to know, if I had known… I wouldn’t have stood still and done nothing, I wouldn’t have just sat here, and let the things he loved die.” And suddenly Peter was at the barrier, all muscle and wolf and glowing eyes. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t have let that sad excuse of a wolf betray him **again**!”

Taking a deep breath he leaned away from the glass, pacing.

“At that, and I think in a way _always_ , he has _always_ been more wolf than... _McCall_ " He grit out, like the name itself pained him. “I did the world a great disservice by biting him instead of Stiles.”

Bitterly, Jackson laughs, drawing Peters attention. “Yeah you sure as fuck did.

“He was always like that you know? Fiercely protective of anything he thought was his, anything he thought he needed to protect. He never trusted anyone until he wanted to, until he watched them, and even if he wasn’t friends with them or even liked them he still was so fiercely protective of what was his. So... territorial” sliding down the glass barrier, Jackson sat and turned to face Peter to continue his story.

“We used to be friends you know? Back before McCall, before his mother died… But after, he closed off, only spoke with Scott, and I being me, would push at him. Looking back, I know it was jealousy… but I pushed Scott once into lockers, and caused him to have an asthma attack. And Stiles, he lunged at me all flying fists and fierce words… but the words hurt more than the fists.

“They always hurt more than the fists…” then sitting up Jackson outright laughed.

“Then, not even a week later. I was arguing with him about something stupid, and one of the older kids I guess, decided it was stupid too... got up in my face, spouting something about my family money and being adopted, as they suddenly punched me in the face… But before I could even react, Stiles had jumped on him, crazy, stupid, protective stiles... The idiot broke his wrist and a few fingers punching the other kid in the face.”

Snorting in fond disbelief, he continued. “I mean, he didn’t even like me then, but he had already decided that in some weird way I was already his… I guess it was kind of a ’I can punch him but you can’t’ situation…”

Peter hummed back, lost in thought. “Always a wolf then…” a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Turning his gaze back to Jackson. A steadiness that he isn’t used to seeing on the unhinged wolf spread across the elder’s face. “I have a few favours I can call in, for-” absently waving his hand around himself. “Everything.”

And Suddenly he dismisses Jackson without further explanation, to rifle through a few books, his back to the younger wolf.

Something sparks behind the older wolf’s eyes as they skim through what looks to be a journal.

“Go keep an eye on our little human wolf until then.”

Jackson leaves Eichen house considerably more confused than anything, but hopeful none the less….

 

He gets back to the Stilinski home to find a teen wolf passed out in a casserole dish, and one very agitated Stiles banging his head and house phone against the kitchen wall, muttering profanity into the ugly wallpaper.


	5. Putting the pieces on the board

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so... two assassins and a secret agent board a plane....  
> sounds like a bad joke... so Nat goes on "mission" and two awkward men try to do the feelings thing... it goes marginally better than expected... sorta...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys... I'm really sorry its been so long, and I wanted to do a really long chapter to show just how much i appreciate everyones words and patience... but... well... its not very long... the next two chapters will probably not have stiles in it, because Im in kinda a rut or sorts... and everything involving stiles at the moment gets a bit too emotional, and i feel bad for dragging him down with my brooding, lol. so tahdah!... this is kinda all i got at the moment... sorry... again thanks to my beta Batgirl394, I've even got this much... well i hope you enjoy what i got.

Two Assassins and A Secret Agent Walk onto A Plane…

Phil is good at his job. The best, actually. And for all intents and purposes he should be able to handle this situation. But as he explained to his nephew that he would be back for the funeral, that he just had to leave to get ready for his arrival in New York first, he felt a small amount of dread settle into his chest at the thought of leaving him there.

However, no matter what he said Stiles wouldn’t budge from his need to stay in Beacon Hills until the funeral.

Sitting on the plane just outside Beacon Hills, Phil, Clint, and Natasha sat around the table viewing all the information Tony had managed to put together while he was at the hospital.

It didn’t look good.

The number of hospital admittances from Stiles alone, were alarming. He would have to speak to Melissa McCall, as it seemed she was the involving nurse in every visit.

The trip to Eichen house was worrying, and looking over the medical reports, Stiles had been admitted for broken bones, multiple concussions, cuts, bruises, burns, in some instances nothing short of seemingly torture.

Slamming his fist down on the table at the idea that anyone would want to hurt Stiles, he did his best to smother the guilt and rage burning in his gut. He should have kept a better eye on his family, damnit!

Gathering his thoughts he glanced at Nat, “I don’t care how you go about it, I want everyone involved and adjacent, questioned. I need answers. Something is missing from the incident reports, and the hospital information. And I can’t get a clear picture without _all_ of the information.”

Natasha, understanding the implications of the order, took it for what it was. A request from a friend, not another mission. Leaning over to rest her shoulder against his in as much of a comfort as she could provide, she simply nodded in recognition. “I’ll get it done.” With that she was out of the plane and onto her first lead (victim).

After Nat exited the plane, Clint got up into the cockpit and closed the hatch doors, but didn’t set off to New York just yet.

Grabbing something from under his seat, clint went back to the table, sitting across from Phil. He poured two glasses of whiskey and waited out the silence, deciding it better to let Phil speak.

Phil glanced up and then down at the two glasses. “You know… I don’t like to drink when I’m working.”

Grabbing the second glass Clint just snorted into his cup and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, good! because these were both for me. I pegged you as more of a wine guy anyway…”  
  
Phil scoffed, and went to grab the remaining glass downing it with a grimace. It left Clint quiet on the other side of the table, eyebrows dangerously close to rising up and off his face, and into his hairline.

“I thought you don’t like to drink while you’re working?”

Phil was quiet for a moment before answering. “I don’t like to… but I needed it…. thanks.”

Clint just hums from behind his glass. “So what did the kid say?”

Phil, setting down his glass, just leaned his head on the table, _tired… far too tired_. “He said he didn’t wan’t me to stay. That he knew my job was important, _” don’t ask me how he even figured out that much_ “ I think he knows I’m not an accountant…” lifting his head to make eye contact, he sat up straighter in his seat.

“It was like he was afraid of me staying in Beacon Hills. Every time he said it, it sounded more and more wrong. Not like he was afraid for himself… but afraid for me? If that makes sense, I’m usually so good at reading people, but he’s just so-” he waved his hands in the air.”-all over the place, its hard to get a good read on him…”

Humming behind his glass, Clint tilted his head in thought. “So you think he’s hiding something? But then again… maybe it’s psychological? Like being in Beacon Hills is related directly with all his family dying, so he thinks if you stay away, you won’t get caught by it?”

Slowly Phil nodded. “Yeah, maybe? I think he’s still hiding something, but I also think he’s been through hell and back, but its like dealing with explosives: it’s a delicate situation... If I touch on the wrong thing he'll explode... or just shut me out. But I think there’s something there beneath the surface… I just need to figure out what.”

Slowly, Phil ran his fingers over thinned lips. “I need to figure out what happened to him.”

Standing abruptly from his seat, Clint made his way back to the cockpit, sat down and buckled in.

“Well, that’s enough mushy feelings. Just be glad you had me to talk with and not Nat…” shuddering, Clint continued. “Jeez it’s like talking to a literal rock… actually a rock would be better, less likely to kill you in your sleep.”

Snorting, Phil could only nod in agreement.

Looking over his shoulder one more time, Clint locked eyes with Phil, and chose his next words carefully.

“Hey, who knows, maybe by the time we get back the genius and his robotic cyber sentinel might already have everything figured out?”

Unfortunately... What JARVIS eventually finds is worse.

It’s _so_ much worse. Nightmares and demons alike, and Phil wonders at all the information, _how did he miss this_? 

When he comes into the tower alongside Clint, Tony is sitting in the corner of his lab next to Bruce, head hung low and muttering. Bruce is trying to talk him through everything his AI has found. Including all the files Nat had already managed to pull from the police station.

Words that sound fantastical to Phil as he gets closer, and at first neither Bruce or Clint have any idea what Tony is talking about.

Everything pulls into sharp focus once Stiles’ name hits his ears.

And he knows from the tight draw of the usually laid back Stark, he isn’t going to like what he has found, but he has to know.


	6. Pandoras box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So in an act of desperation, Tony digs a bit too far, and the group almost immediately regret it. Phil realizes he is kinda shity at multitasking, and also at being an uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey again, i know its been a while, I am still doing this story, it is whole heartedly most my life at this point, even if the chapters are few and far between at the moment, which i always feel the need to apologize for. but hey. the next few chapters are gonna be kinda rough, and also my beta reader is on much needed vacation.... so by rough... y'know. any-who! heres the new chapter, sorry its... well what it is. should I do the tony and bruce pvs first? or is it time for some hales to come into stiles life? let me know! cause while i know where i'm going, I'm not entirely sure about the roads imma take to get there. have a great day guys!

It starts with the animal attacks that occurred less than two years ago.

Or maybe it started earlier than that, when a house full of people burned, and the truth was covered up in money and ashes.

Phil can’t be sure, even with the blunt way Tony is saying it, but he’ll have Nat look into it for a better understanding. Facts can only get you so far, when the people who have lived through it aren’t around to confirm or deny it.

He thinks Stiles will know. Stiles who, at his best, has a difficult time leaving things alone, leaving people alone. 

The facts are clear. A family was burned alive by a woman who can only be described as insane. The same woman and all known associates to the fire were in no easy terms, mauled to death by what appears in records to be a mountain lion, and if Tony hadn’t had Jarvis hack into Stiles’ laptop, then that’s all they would have been able to call it.

But instead they get a horrifically detailed journal including official police reports and corroborating evidence gathered by a teenager in desperation, since day one from Stiles perspective. Including facts, theories, and every gory detail, until it just stops. But it’s enough to understand that Stiles couldn’t leave it alone, couldn’t let people die. All his research and facts, that no one else has, because he did the work and talked to the people, so now they know far more than any outsider should. They know that it _did_  begin with a house fire, started by a woman who deceived and seduced an underage child into spilling secrets that get his whole family burned alive. Just for the reason they were born different.

They know now that the killings were because two terrified children fled beacon hills in the night, leaving an uncle to stew in a perpetually burning world for nearly 6 years, alone, made all the worse from realising the truth of werewolves.

Jesus Christ, Clint and Phil end up having to sit down in the middle of debrief because _fucking werewolves_. It’s a lot to wrap one’s head around, and if it weren’t for the very detailed descriptions followed by evidence, and Bruce’s confirmation that werewolves, among many other crazy things are in fact real, they might _still_ be questioning it.

Phil doesn’t want to believe it.

Then, like proverbial icing on the shit storm that is Beacon Hills, he almost throws up when they tell him about what Stiles called a Nogitsune. He had to read it for himself to believe it.

There’s a weirdly blank time frame near the end of last year, and then the journal starts again. But it’s worse.

Worse, than what they read about a group of alphas that killed his friends, _children._  Worse than a freaky lizard being controlled by not one but _two_ psychopaths. Even worse than an evil druid, or darach as it’s called, who is obsessed with power and starts ritually sacrificing left and right. And... even worse than his own nephew being held and tortured by one of said psychopaths.  
   
Clint, knowing intimately the inner turmoil of being used by a god to conduct murder and carnage on innocents and the people he loves, actually does throw up. Excusing himself for ten minutes to dry heave into the kitchen sink.

He came back in the middle of a journal entry that was so self deprecating that he almost has to excuse himself again. Stiles was explaining in horrific detail remembering the feeling of griping a katana in the stomach of his best friend, of killing his friends, who were only children themselves.

The entire journal, the kid keeps blaming himself (Phil thinks they are going to have to talk about that), going over what went wrong, and steps to prevent similar incidents from happening again. The last entry mentions a new student named Theo and how he isn’t sure he can trust him.

Then it just stops, and Phil’s stomach churns, because the last time there was a break in the journal, His only nephew was used by a thousand year old Japanese fox to kill over a dozen people.

Phil thinks he shouldn’t have left. That he should have kept in better touch, at least enough to know that Stiles had been kidnaped and tortured. Or that the Sheriff, his brother in law, had been declared missing.

But he _didn’t_ keep in touch, and he _didn’t_ know. His nephew, a child, was thrown headfirst into an actual nightmare, and never got back out. And not knowing about it, was all on himself.

He didn’t call, didn’t check in, didn’t even think to monitor the only two family members he had left.

By the end of the journal, after going over all the camera footage, and police statements on record, he is shaking and tired, and guilty as hell. He actually feels a little bit better, when he looks up into Tony’s face and sees such profound disappointment for the first time since knowing him. In the long stretch of heavy silence that follows, no one knows what to say. Not really. Not after that.

The first one to break the silence is unsurprisingly Tony, who is never good at silence, and often breaks it to save himself from being in those kinds of uncomfortable situations, but all that really escapes his mouth is a wounded sound. The other three in the room look up in alarm.

Tony, for privacy purposes, refused to let the other three read the journal in its entirety already feeling entirely too invasive. Choosing to read and voice only the supernatural and crime related entries with the help of Jarvis, leaving a lot of the journal unknown to the other three.

Which was fine with Phil, since he was barely comfortable with what he was told already. But that left Tony to read most of the journal deciding what should be shared, since he could count as a third party.

But the look on his face wasn’t comforting, and the wounded noise that came from Tony, was in no small terms alarming, when coupled with a face so pale it made the normally olive skinned male, seem almost ghostly.

Phil wondered if Tony was no longer counted as a third party.

He now had even more intimate insight into Stiles than even Phil did.

Standing up in front of Tony’s desk he asked weakly, “What’s wrong?” not even sure if he wanted to know.

Tony shook his head, indicating it wasn’t anything supernatural, or life threatening that he had stumbled upon.

Barton, having excused himself after the emotional rollercoaster of the debrief, walked back into the lab and slammed down four glasses, and an unopened bottle of alcohol with a snake coiled up at the bottom.

All three men immediately recoiled.

Tony was the first to voice his concerns. “Where did you even find this?”

Barton opened the bottle, not even blinking at its questionable contents, and just shrugged.

“It was on your shelf with all the alcohol from ‘around the world’.” 

Rolling his eyes he poured four glasses, and mumbled, “It’s called habu-something, I don’t know, I just grabbed what looked like it would get us drunk fastest.” At that the three other men hummed in agreement.

When Barton set down the jar, it sloshed a little and the snake slightly uncoiled from the bottom, causing Phil to grimace at the thought of drinking something that had that in it for who knows how long. “I don’t think this is actually legal in the United States…” but didn’t protest as the glass was shoved into his hand.

Bruce, who had been mostly quiet except for the short confirmations of the supernatural, finally ended up speaking when Tony wondered out loud if he should be drinking.

“I’ve been around the world and back, I think I can handle a little bit of alcohol, even one that looks... so questionable.” then shrugging in Tony's direction he continued, “also, I don’t think any of us really feel like being very sober right now.”

Tony, blanching slightly at the admission, could only agree, but gripped the tablet that had been used to hack into the Stilinski boys computer so hard Phil thought it might break.

If he wasn’t acutely aware that most Stark products were alarmingly but practically, bullet proof.

Each man in the room downed their respective glass only slightly flinching at the taste, and just sat in respective silence trying to file away all the information they had been presented with, and only slightly dreading whatever Natasha managed to uncover.


	7. Moth meet candle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is a nosy SOB... Stiles updates his Supernatural journal... Its the beginning of a weird philanthropists obsession...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had a bit going on. Not saying I haven't been writing, because I have, but I also have another New beta reader, who is helping me adjust and fix all the chapters previous, since i apparently have a real issue with tense... and i do, I'm not denying it, so we have been rewriting and updating chapters 1-7... also, I think I will dedicate this whole fic to my sister Lauren, who without her obsessively trying to get me to write it.... it wouldn't exist in the first place, lmao. also she was my first beta reader, which is why I keep jumping around, and things have gotten choppy, I went from one beta reader to two, then back to one again, and now I am back to two beta readers. it's been a rollercoaster, and I am ready for this year to be over... anyway. thank you for sticking with my fickle self. really. Thanks guys.

 

 

Most people who know Tony, know he has trouble letting things go. One might even say he had a bad habit of obsessing.

So nobody could really be surprised by his sudden deep desire to know of all things supernatural on the planet. So much so that when he found the holy grail of a sixteen year old boy’s eyewitness, day by day experience around the supernatural, including video, audio, and physical beautiful evidence… well needless to say, he started reading it without reservation.

He almost immediately regretted it.

It was in no short terms horrifying, and the more he read the less he wanted to show it to Phil.

“There is no way I can show this to Phil.” Tony sighed, as he turned to Bruce who had been quietly listening in the corner of the lab. “How am I supposed to explain to him, that his nephew is living a nightmare!?”

Spinning in his chair, he shot up from his seat and started tapping his StarkPad on his chin in thought.

Bruce, having been mostly quiet until now just shook his head, “I don’t think anyone else should read what you’ve read. Don’t you think that one person intruding into the most personal aspect of his life is enough?”

Guilt bled through Tony and he conceded point. He sat back down tossing the tablet onto the desk and roughly raking his hands through his hair. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey Phil, turns out your nephew has been fighting a war in a creepy supernatural world filled with werewolves and freaky robot people, oh and he was possessed and used as a murder puppet by a thousand year old Kitsune’, whatever the fuck that is?!?!”

Looking up from the tablet he had picked up when Tony threw it down, Bruce unhelpfully added “Kitsune are Japanese fox spirits… “

Throwing his hands in the air Tony halfheartedly glared at Bruce out of panic “Oh great! That makes it so much better!” then dejectedly dropped his arms to his side. “That’ll make the conversation go so much smoother, ‘Hey Phil, looks like your good nephew stiles was possessed by an ancient fox spirit, and used as a puppet for murder and just general mayhem, isn’t that great?!’”

Pausing to think for a second he then continued, locking eyes with Bruce. “How do you know about all this stuff anyway? And how are you so casual about it? I’m freaking out here, and I’ve fought giant space aliens from another realm.”

Lightly shrugging Bruce grinned. “So have I. And it’s amazing how much crazy shit you see when running around the world off the grid… Turns out a lot of supernatural run off the grid too.”

Nearly speechless, Tony sputtered for a second trying to think of what questions he wanted to ask first, only to be interrupted by Phil and Barton’s consecutive “What about Stiles?”

The entire conversation left in its wake, a bunch of fully grown men wanting to drink away their memories.

Just after debrief, Tony is still staring blankly at the tablet when JARVIS pings to let him know the computer journal was being updated.

Apprehensively Tony opens up the new page, dreading the update, but thankful it came, meaning he was alive and sane enough to do so…

Tony had a heavy feeling in his stomach that told him he would never be able to be an impartial third party again.

His mind supplied unhelpful ways of trying to protect the boy that fell just short of just wrapping him in bubble wrap and hiding him somewhere…

Unfortunately his worries were met two fold as the journal entry came in, and he couldn’t help the wounded sound that came out of his mouth, but turned down telling the rest of the room knowing Phil didn’t want to know.

He didn’t think the guilt ridden man deserved another blow just yet, and resolved in the back of his mind to alert Natasha, and see if he couldn’t drag Buck out of whatever floorboard or vent he was hiding in to go and meet her.

  
_______

 

_August 27th Supernatural Journal Update - current death toll for the new year: nine, which makes the supernatural related death total… eighty-two._

_The newest is the death of the sheriff of Beacon Hills, my father, John G. Stilinski, orchestrated by Theo and the Dread Doctors. As well as the attempted and almost successful murder of one Scott McCall. Theo used Liam against him. He’s barely 15 and already has blood on his hands. I don’t know how any of us has managed to survive this hell mouth. I imagine if we don’t do something soon, this town will swallow us whole._

_In case I die, burn my comics with my body. I don’t need you ungrateful peons getting your greasy uncultured fingers all over them._

_Incident reports of the death of Sheriff Stillinski are attached, as well as files of the 12 missing students believed to be chimeras. Whether they are alive or dead is unknown. I will update as soon as I have confirmation on all twelve students. Hayden Romero and Corey Bryant are the only two confirmed alive as of this morning, via Liam's eyewitness account. But I will have to see them with my own eyes to be sure._

_According to Hayden's explanation to Liam, she and the other chimeras were brought back at the base of the Nemeton, through some serum the Dread Doctors concocted. I don’t have samples yet, but when I do, I'll have Deaton check for any and all peculiarities, and I will attach my findings with the rest of the files._

_That said, I have far too little evidence and far too much speculation, making it difficult to move forward._

_I am afraid of how this is going to turn out._

_I don’t have enough allies. I have lost almost everyone. Lydia is being taken away by her mother, and Scott… Well... Scott has all but condemned me. I imagine Kira is on his side, and I am unsure of where Parrish stands. My father is dead, and I am trying to keep Melissa as far away as possible from this fight. Deaton, as always, cannot interfere. I am reluctant to pull Liam into this fight. I have Jackson, but I am afraid to pull him in, as well. He’s fought enough._

_Deaton has given me the means, so I just have to figure out the how._

_I think maybe this is how people become monsters._

_Not surprising, but friends are harder to keep in this kind of world, and I am saying now, that if I end up dead, and this is discovered in my absence, it was 100% Theo. I knew he was no good from the day he showed up, but as given the current trend, no one believed me. Though... no one ever believes me about those things. Especially not after… well the whole Eichen house evil Kitsune induced murderspree thing._

_I imagine if anyone is to get ahold of my laptop it will be Peter(I'm honestly surprised he hasn't broken out of eichen yet)… He already probably knows all my passwords anyway. And if I die, before Theo is dead, then Peter my man, you get to pick up the mantle! (seriously... Peter, you like killing things right? the least you can do is kill his evil creepier than thou were-ass... I brought you books and shit okay?)_

_How is it that even typing I can’t keep on topic? Doesn’t matter. This is just for me anyway..._ _So I don’t forget. I'm not allowed to forget anymore._

 

_I’m just so tired though..._

_I’m tired of watching everyone I love die, no matter what I do._

_I’m tired of not being strong enough to protect what’s mine… I'm tired of running and fighting and killing and lying..._

_I wonder if this is how people become monsters._

_I already feel like I am halfway there. But I don’t mind. If this is what it takes to protect what little I have left, then I don’t mind becoming a monster._

_I’ve read all the books Deaton gave me, and now he has supplied me weapons, and all the things I need. Even thought he doesn’t know everything I have planned. All I can do is hope this plan works, because I don’t really have any other options._

_But I will break all of Deaton's shity druid rules--hell, I'll break every single law of the universe if I have to, as long as it means I never have to watch the life bleed out of who I love again. I think I wouldn’t mind becoming a monster for that._

_This is just… an apology of sorts... at this point... in case it doesn’t work._

_Sorry, for not being a good enough son or friend or brother or protector. Sorry for not being strong enough. Sorry for dragging everyone along with me into the abyss of the supernatural… I feel like I was the first domino… in a line of dominos falling, only to land on the nuclear button at the end… Sorry we have lost so much… Sorry I have killed so many… before they even reached adulthood…_

_Just… this damn journal and all these fucking entries were supposed to make me feel better, but they don’t. They are just the proof of my sins..._

_That we stand precariously balanced at the edge of the hell mouth._

_That there were others, braver, better, kinder... who fought, and who died._  
  
_This is so I don’t ever forget. I can’t ever forget._

_That these are probably my first steps to becoming a monster._

  
_______

 

Tony grit his teeth and slammed his head against the desk, suddenly way too tired. JARVIS was currently trying to find Bucky, but Tony wasn’t worried, he could always call Steve, and watch as Bucky seeped out of the rafters trying to scare his long time friend. Tony couldn’t be sure, but thought the ex-mercenary enjoyed scaring the shit out of Steve.

Glancing back at the tablet of information He had abandoned at the desk, he swivelled around and whined in the direction of Bruce, hoping for some kind of worldly advice, even though the most he would get was deadpan sass.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this. I’m usually great about being impartial, but all it takes are a few journal entries? I’m getting soft.” But even as the words left his mouth his heart ached for the boy.

Bruce, as patient with Tony as ever, just snorted in disbelief. “When have you ever been impartial? And why does it matter? You do what you want anyway. Just leave me out of it If you resort to kidnaping. I’ve got enough on my record.”

Nodding, Tony quietly hummed, getting up to leave for his work shop, already conspiring along the way. He wasn’t going to resort to kidnaping… probably. It was Phil’s family after all, he’d get here eventually. He just hoped it would be in one piece when he did.

Yeah, he really needed to find Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lauren, thank you for talking me into starting this fic.... Annaliese thank you for sticking with me through the grief, and Shannon, thank you for pulling me out of it, when all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and forget the world existed... seriously guys... thanks.


	8. When is a sacrifice really a sacrifice?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles Drugs some overprotective wolfies. Then decides to go make terrible decisions and have a conversation with a tree. 
> 
> Surprisingly, the tree talks back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is long over due. no excuses. i just generally suck lmao.

Logically, Stiles understood how everything led up to this moment ... He understood, but it didn't mean he was okay with it.

Sitting on the almost-rotting Nemeton, Stiles was sure there was probably a better way to go about this. But seven slow, excruciatingly-dull and complex Magic books in, and Deaton telling him all the things (rules) he shouldn’t go against, of course he felt like he HAD to go and break almost every single one… consecutively.

He doubted he would get a chance to be alone like this in the future, and figured it was now or never. Since the two surprisingly whiny, overbearingly overprotective werewolves were passed out back at the house. Also having just finished warding the house up to the nines using nearly an entire pint of blood Stiles then proceeded to drug the wolves to stay sleeping for at least 12 hours, maybe more. And knew upon waking, they would be weary of ever letting him out of their sight again. At least for the foreseeable future. He hadn’t really figured out dosages, but if they stayed sleeping too long... Well, he’d worry about it then.

The problem with magic was that it was stupidly straight forward, or it was supposed to be. Until Stiles was entered into the equation. Someone who could just kinda ask for things, and they would happen, as long as his will and belief were strong enough. Which was ridiculous. But according to Deaton, he couldn’t come into the full power of his “spark,” seeing as he wasn’t yet at the age of 18. Making Stiles essentially useless until then.

So naturally, Stiles had to find a loophole--okay, not a “loophole,” more like a violation of basic physics and the natural laws of the universe. But hey, Stiles was never one to follow rules or actually get anywhere near even grazing them. At best, he maybe ran parallel to them from several hundred meters away. But Stiles wasn’t Stiles if he couldn’t completely absorb all information pertaining to magic and then almost effortlessly destroy all logic. If only to see Deaton make some kind of face that wasn’t irritatingly passive in the end: a roll of the eyes, something. He wasn’t picky.

He understood himself well enough to know that if he didn’t do this, it would nag at him every second of every day until he did. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already sort of accidentally started the ritual earlier in the year when he had sacrificed himself to find his dad. Actually, considering he had sacrificed himself to the Nemeton and also pulled out and destroyed the evil spirit residing in it, he was already more than halfway there. He just needed to close the circle, which meant blood sacrifice. The biggest problem of which was that it had to be his blood. Like… all of it. He wasn’t exactly sure how that was gonna go.

Either A) he’d unlock the power that would usually only present itself as an adult. In the process, he might also drain what was left of the Nemeton, which acted as a beacon to the supernatural. He'd be, effectively, destroying it, making Beacon Hills infinitely safer.

Or B) he would end up as a blood-drained corpse, and no one would be the wiser til they found his lifeless body draped across the center rungs of the Nemeton, rotting into its nearly-dead stump, as just another number to the ever-growing body count.

To be honest, it was sort of a lose-lose situation, meaning that even if he managed to unlock his spark, there was no telling if he would even have control enough to use it and not take half of the town with him. It was either this or uproot the stupid thing and then burn it to ash. But he was afraid that would warrant a curse that would span over several generations, and he wasn’t going to put his future unborn babies in that position if he ever managed to live long enough to find himself in said situation. He just wasn’t going to risk it, okay?

Getting up and pulling everything he needed from his backpack, he grimaced as he pulled the rune-engraved, sharpened bone from the bottom. All he could think was 1) gross--this was in no way sanitary--and 2) no amount of sharpening a bone would make it any less jagged--and oh my god, what if he got shards stuck in him? Why was this a requirement? Seriously, the first thing he was going to do after solving the Beacon Hills issue was figure out better ways to do this shit. But then, it was probably a good thing that it was so hard to replicate, seeing as he was literally just throwing a bunch of half-baked ideas and lore together like a magical collage in hopes of bullshitting his way to power... Or, at the very least, not bleeding to death on the lifeless husk of the Nemeton. Small steps.

The jar of assorted magic crap would have been okay if he didn’t have to drink it, but somewhere between Native American and Nordic sub-genre magics, he found he really didn’t have a choice in the matter. The concoction was so foul, he would have taken the damn substance intravenously if he could--and he was so far from being okay with needles. It smelled like mud, and to be fair, there was tree bark and moss from the Nemeton in it as well as a few minerals. So it was no wonder that it smelled like dirt. He essentially had a jar of dirt, and he was about to drink it. He was about to drink dirt. Shaking himself out of his circular thoughts, he grabbed all the supplies and dragged himself back to the center of the stump.

The set up itself wasn’t actually all that difficult, and Stiles would be more worried if he didn’t already know that 80% of magic was belief. He downed the jar of disgusting swamp ass and rotting moss with minimal gagging and laid out the dagger. Then, just sat and waited for the clouds to drift out of the way of the moon. There were no words or overly-exaggerated acts of magic or ancient summoning rituals. Which was all well and good, because this early in the game, anything too complicated would be botched up immediately via the Stiles Stilinski way. Stiles was broken out of his internal ramblings as the trees around him began to shake. Their leaves and branches rustling in a mockery of whispers. Almost unconsciously He began to mumble aloud while running his fingers over the rings of the Nemeton in hopes to both calm his nerves and soothe the sketchy-ass tree he sat atop of. “You know, I read somewhere that you used to protect this land once. For a thousand years or something. Which would be cool and all if you hadn’t gotten yourself chopped down and used multiple times to bring pain and suffering to basically everything I love, so there's that.” Pausing, he considered what he had just said and hummed thoughtfully. “How did you manage to get cut down, anyway? Was it before the Hales? Or was it during their time here? Is that why? Did they fail to protect you? Or were you all betrayed at once by someone strong enough to both stop the Hales and cut you down?” He continued to run his fingers softly over the rings. “I bet you were pretty impressive, too. Bet you’re pretty tired of being used, as well. Nobody likes to be used against their will.”

Flinching, Stiles mentally cringed realizing that was basically what he was doing, but the concoction from the jar had settled heavy in his stomach making him feel off centered and numb. He imagined this must be how the Native Americans felt when they embarked on one of their crazy peyote-induced walkabouts, on the eternal quest for spirit or something. And while he had felt like he had walked a 100 miles, he knew he was still sitting on the Nemeton. Could still feel the old bark and rough rings under his fingers. Trying to focus, he breathed deeply and closed his fingers around the end of the bone knife, hoping to ground himself.

However, in true Stiles fashion, he couldn’t stop talking, even if he wanted to, magic rituals be damned. “I know that I’m no better than everyone else before, since I am also technically using you. Even if I say I’m not like the others, because I’m not doing this to cause harm or mayhem, I also know it probably doesn’t matter to you, since either way, you’re being used.” Taking another deep breath, he leaned on the hand that was absently running over the tree rings, roughly catching a few splinters and not being able to care. He tried to focus on the feel of the tree beneath him, beneath the stump and into its roots and even further into its ley lines. He sighed, finally able to feel the true weight of the tree, all its age and power, and with a strange weight, it clicked with Stiles in the way he somehow could still remember the way his mother smelled of lilac and vanilla and his father smelled of gun oil and ink. Or the way he felt when the Hales were around him: warm and solid, with history older than a name and magic more than just the influence of a moon. And he could feel the worn edges of too-old magic and tired roots trying to hold up against all odds and realized that the Nemeton was as tired as he was, maybe more so. After struggling for who knew how long, clinging and hanging on with nowhere to go because its roots were so deeply embedded.

Suddenly, Stiles couldn’t hold back the sob as it tore its way out of him, realizing the Nemeton hadn’t wanted this any more than Stiles. If someone had just thought about it sooner and let the Nemeton finally rest rather than force it to carry sacrifices and house dark spirits, that so many people would still be alive. Still, Stiles felt the need to ask, if only to voice it aloud to hear his own conviction, “You know, if you’ll let me, if you’ll help me, and if I am doing this right, which is a big if, you’ll be able to rest.” (We’ll be able to rest), Stiles thought, hoped.

Wrapping his other hand around the handle of the blade, he took four quick breaths, glanced to the moon, and braced himself as he plunged the bone into his gut. His blood seeped from the wound, and as his life slowly ebbed away his vision faded and darkness bit at his senses. So he did what only a spark could do. He squeezed his eyes shut, and with every fiber of his being, he believed.

 

—————

 

When he came to, Stiles was still lying on the Nemeton, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he panicked at the sight of four pristine white walls surrounding him, thinking he had somehow invited the fox back in. His scream died in his throat when he saw his mother standing before him, bare feet digging into the fresh moss at the base around the Nemeton. She looked kind and clean and good. All the things she was before she became sick. Stiles wanted to sob with the thrum of want that went through him. The want to hug and cling and cry, to hear her voice. But he was afraid of what she would say. Would she blame him for her pain like she used to on her worst days in the hospital? Would she blame him for his father's? He realized he was staring at her hands, too afraid to look up into her face, to see the truth behind her eyes. But then a voice in him said it was too much, too good, too kind of life to be true--traitorous whispers of logic flickered in the back of his mind as reality pieced slowly together after shattering in the shadow of his mother's memory.

He looked up into eyes much too knowing, much too wise to be his mother's, and his heart broke a little. Knew she felt it as well; as her smile turned down a bit at the corners, and the crease between her eyes deepened.

Glancing down at the Nemeton he perched upon, he whispered almost rhetorically, because he knew fate wasn’t kind enough to give him this. “Are you… are you the Nemeton?” He braced himself as she gently sat on the edge of the stump, her hand reaching out in a short, aborted movement, as if she was afraid that touching him would just make it worse. She was right.

The hand he knew from memory was his mother's; and her long, thin arm stretched toward him. The hair and eyes… the laugh lines, all as he remembered, as he couldn’t forget. But he knew it wasn’t her. Not really.

It was too much too soon. He slammed his eyes shut and whispered, “Please,” almost choking on the request. “Please, can you be anyone but her, anything but her?”

The silence lingering after his request was almost deafening, and he almost thought it had been ignored or denied. (Of course it would be.) But then a hand touched his chin, forcing him to acknowledge and look up into a face that was no longer his mother's or anyone he should recognize. But he did, because he was a nosey son who rifled through his father's police reports, and because he was a terrible child who dug up her body in a righteous, blind, naive pursuit to do good.

Before him stood the nearly forgotten face of Laura; and something in him settled at seeing a Hale and not some cruel facsimile of his mother or father. He breathed and locked eyes with her.

Her eyes, both amused and worried, studied him. And though he knew she looked like Laura, he also knew it wasn’t her. Unwillingly, the curious part of him wheedled to the surface and he found himself blurting out, “What is your name?” just a little too loud for someone already so close to his face. After attempting to rein in his nerves, he tried again. “I mean, what do I call you? What do you want me to call you? Because I know you aren’t Laura, and I know you’re technically a tree. Which is freaky, by the way.”

He would have said more but was broken out of his rambling by the almost pleased laughter of, “Not Laura.”

When she spoke, her words rang like glass chimes: light and soft, but succinct in their intent. “You may call me Nadie... Before people wore shoes and lived in stone, they called me this.” She hadn’t finished speaking, but Stiles couldn’t help himself and snorted disbelievingly. Amused, she sat back and hummed, her understanding of the reality clear.

“You know this is ridiculous, right?” Stiles spoke, nearing hysteria. “I mean, you’re a tree.”

He glanced up to see Nadie nodding in agreement. “Yes, but I’m an old tree.” Then, waggling her fingers at his face, she finished her short explanation unhelpfully, “Also, I’m a magical tree, so a magical old tree if that helps.”

Surprisingly, it did. “So. I’m sitting here, on the figurative nearly dead carcass of YOU, an old, magical tree… Because I am clearly insane and thought sacrificing myself on your remains was the only way to fix this shitty situation without somehow making it shittier.” At this point, considering the significant part he had played in this whole scenario, he'd better just roll with it, though he was honestly not expecting to get spirited away to a magical white room by the ghost of a dying tree. He figured he would just absorb the tree into him or blow up or, really, anything but this. But he didn’t blow up, so he wasn’t going to look this gift horse in its proverbial mouth.

When he looked up, it was to Nadie’s barely-concealed mirth. In fact, she looked elated and nearly on the verge of joviality. Suspicious, Stiles cocked his head at her. “Why are you so happy? People keep using you. Hell, I’m using you. You shouldn’t be so happy. This is basically a result of my poor planning in hopes to put you to rest.”

At these words, she no longer looked on the verge of laughter, but her smile was still there, and when she spoke, the chime to her voice was still as soothing as it had been. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be this happy, but I am.” She sighed and leaned back to look around at her white walls then back to Stiles. “But I heard you as you sat on my rings and spoke. You asked. Better than that, you understood.” Giving up on any pretenses of formality, she shrugged her shoulders and draped herself across the Nemeton, letting her fingers brush against his shin as she stretched out like a cat in the sun. ”I am tired of being used to hurt and kill this land and the things living in it. I’m tired of being alone. No one comes to me anymore. No one speaks to me or even knows about me unless it's to use me as a conduit for magic.” She turned her head in playful reprimand. “And I know you think I should be mad about you being here, Stiles, but it's honestly been a long time since anyone even bothered to look at me as an entity and not just some tool. No one but you has spoken to me in decades, maybe longer. But I was dying long before the last generation of Hales stood strong. Before Argents and feuds, before Kitsunes and Nogitsunes. It's a long story spanning centuries that you don’t have time for, not right now.”

The mention of time made Stiles anxious, because he didn't know how time spent with Nadie translated to the outside, and he really hoped no-one found his body and buried him. Or worse: ate him. Given the supernatural population of the preserve, it was a 50/50 at this point. So he took a deep breath attempting to settle his nerves and plowed on ahead. “How do we… I mean, what now? I don’t know what you want or what I’m supposed to do. Honestly, I’m pretty proud of myself for getting this far.” Scratching the back of his neck, he looked down, embarrassed.

Nadie chuckled darkly, pulling him out of his embarrassment. “Well, we can do this two ways: either I follow you into the other side, where your dad is, where your mother is, thus both you and I and all the power smothering Beacon Hills will ultimately vanish in a big pop… Or you try to absorb me into your body and hope you don’t explode, but since you’ve somehow managed to get this far, you probably won’t explode.”

Great. Stiles had sacrificed himself to the grand master sassiest of all sentient trees… Twice. Rolling his eyes, Stiles huffed in his defence, “Yeah, well, I figured it was barely a 50/50 when I did this, and as much as I want to see them…” Stiles shook himself. “I don’t think I could look them in the eyes right now. Maybe not for a long time.” He smirked ruefully. “Besides, I’ve got a few things that need to be done before I decide to leave for the great beyond or whatever the hell is on the other side.”

When he glanced back over to Nadie, he was surprised to find her serious for the first time since coming to this insane place. Looking into her eyes was mesmerizing, as if they reflected galaxies and universes, stars and unknown matter. And Stiles found himself thinking that maybe before she was a tree, she was something else altogether. But all sound died in his throat the longer he stared, and decided not to voice his thoughts aloud.

Blinking slowly at him Nadie gently took his left hand, placing inside smooth minerals of topaz, malachite, and something he would later figure out was a type of fluorite before letting him drop his hand back to his side. She then grabbed his right to place a large piece of deep red amber into his palm and held it there. As Stiles looked up at her in confusion, she just laughed softly and shook her head.

“I feel like this is escalating rather quickly,” Stiles mused as he felt the weight of the stones before sliding them into his pocket. “Are you gonna tell me what they’re for, or do I just get the fun task of guessing?” Stiles queried, eyebrow raised, daring her to say otherwise.

“I’ll just let you figure it out if you’re going to be like that. You’re the one who stabbed yourself over me, so if anyone has stepped over that line, it’s you,” Nadie shot back, playfulness in her eyes. She was clearly taking this better than Stiles.

Suddenly, Nadie's brow furrowed, and a line of worry he hadn’t seen before became prevalent as she suddenly jerked up to a standing position. Swiftly but gently, she took Stiles's face with her long, delicate fingers, resting her thumbs over his cheek bones. “We are running out of time. Someone has interfered.”

The words chased icy tendrils of fear down his spine. He sputtered and had to grope for purchase upon the Nemeton, as she leaned more heavily on him, crowding his space. He knew the kind of people who would be looking for him, who would be able to find the nemeton. None of them Stiles really wanted to see right now. “What do you mean, someone has interfered?! I’m incapacitated! What are they doing to my body?” A shrill sound echoed in the back of his head as the walls around them shard by shard began to crack and fall away, letting the negative space beyond show.

Stiles's panicking hit tenfold when he saw Nadie’s eyes fade out and go white. Even as he struggled, her hands held firm to his face as the places where her fingers touched caused the skin beneath to burn. The fiery feeling bleeding from her fingertips into him at a torpid pace causing the blood in him to feel like lava. The hum that started when she first touched him now all he could hear. A cacophony of what he could only describe as screams roared in his ears, surrounding him. It felt like he was being burned alive in a white-hot storm of ash and molten magic. Suddenly he found himself overcome with grief for the Hale family as he was stricken with irrationale guilt. Longing for the lives that might have been, worlds that would never be, and vowed never again for the last remaining Hales, at least not in fire.

It was as if her fingers were burning themselves through his skin pressing down and into the surface of his brain, and it was all he could do to focus on her eyes and the sounds and the burning. For what felt to be eternity, it was all he was. Just noise and pain. With his last shred of sanity, he wondered if this was what hell might feel like if he believed in such things anymore.

He barely had the presence of mind to realize it was actually him screaming, before darkness took him. And then, abruptly, nothing.

 

\----------

 

He woke up screaming and in pain with something foreign seemingly holding him together with a strength that couldn’t be entirely human. He struggled and thrashed trying to rid himself of the vice-like grip around him, until the soft tones of a woman reaches his ears, gently shushing him. At first, he thought this strange woman to be Nadie, as gentle cool fingers carded through his unkempt hair and trailed lightly over his feverish skin. But as he attempted to takes in his surroundings, dread settled into his gut. The woman above him whispering to him in soft Russian, not unlike his mother used to do after nightmares when he was young and woke up crying. It both soothed and hurt something deep inside him.

She wasn’t the one holding him, and he didn't want to look back just yet(couldn’t). But he knew instinctively where he was... From cold damp of the floor beneath him, to the sharp contrast of metal tables gleaming in low light. He knew by the sound of rushing water and the hum of electricity and the ominous beeping of equipment. This was the last place he ever wanted to find himself, and the people here now--he wasn’t sure if they were unfortunate bystanders or enemies. But he was too tired, everything still feeling like it was on fire, even with the mercy of cold concrete underneath his skin and cool fingers on his brow, soothing very little. Against his will, darkness took him again. Slowly, with vice-like arms still holding him up and the soft ministrations of female fingers and soft Russian whispers, he fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i hope this meets expectations... if not I'm sorry! also... if anyone wants to talk to me about the way this story is going feel free to email me at heroicyoshiki@gmail.com because i don't actually have anyone to bounce ideas off of. and without someone yelling at me... well... the chapters take longer than i like. and i'm super sorry. also wowee look at that! its already 2017... its a bit rough going but what can ya do? hope everyone had a great christmas and new years! k byeeeee.


	9. This Forrest is Dark and Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha finds Stiles and Bucky loses both

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... can i say i'm sorry? that i have no excuse? but... i was also writing like 3 other things at the time... and i have a hard time splitting my time evenly... for those of you who have stuck with me thus far... thank you.

Natasha Romanof was older than she appeared and had lived through many things, witnessed both miracles and catastrophes on grand scales and singularities. Today, when she thought her knowledge could not expand further than the realization of the supernatural, had proceeded to follow a child into the forests of Beacon Hills Preserve only to lose him in a haze of disorientation. When she finally found him, when the forest finally allowed her to find him, he lay in ash and leaves with a knife of bone lodged in his abdomen.

  
She began to think that maybe no amount of life wisdom could prepare her for this.

 

  
—————

 

  
Today just wasn’t her day and Nat had never felt so unprepared. It started off fairly normal. She got up, took a shower, cleaned her guns, checked her gear. The usual early morning routine. Then she proceeded to make good on her promise to Stark and Phil to keep vigilance over Stiles. It all went downhill from there.

  
When she got off the plane, leaving Clint to talk with Phil and saving herself from an awkward “ _feelings_ ” conversation, she had thought maybe it would be an easy recon job. Despite Tony sending her a, frankly, disturbing number of texts, she didn’t even think of checking them until after she got back from her first visit to the police station, where she had immediately established herself as an outside investigator due to the recent unclear death of the former sheriff and the sheer, horrifying number of unexplained deaths in the past two years. Speaking congenially with a high priority target, who according to Tony, also had a considerable amount of contact with both the sheriff and Stiles inside and outside of the station. She felt a pang of sympathy for the young Acting Sheriff Parrish as she spoke to him, noticing the bags under his eyes and the way his hands shook if he wasn’t paying close enough attention to them. She made small talk and let him know she would be in and out for the next week leading up to the funeral. She was thanked profusely for any help. Afterward, she exited into the night to procure a hotel room that would tide her over for her time in Beacon Hills.

  
Everything was running smoothly. She would watch the Stilinski house at night, sleep in the morning, then go over to the Sheriff's station in the afternoon to help where she could with the files in the Sheriff's office. This continued smoothly until night 4, when just after dusk, while she was watching the house, Stiles walked out the front door alone and threw a small cloud of sand into the air. She watched in awe as the fine black powder fell in a perfect circular perimeter around the house. Then found herself frowning as she watched the boy slink off into the night, through the darkness of woods, without a flashlight. For someone who was so often surrounded by death and trouble, he was certainly careless with his own life. Silently, she followed him into the deep, dark woods. Warning bells rang in her head, and worry tugged on her gut as the ominous silence of the forest followed the boy along his path. She wondered more than once if the silence was caused by him or for him… “Tonight will find trouble,” she thought. But despite her wisdom, she trailed along in his shadow all the same.

  
Beneath the pale of the moonlight shadows flickered and danced in her peripheral as branches swayed in the night, but not a single sound was heard. Blindly, Natasha followed, not knowing where he was going into the deep dark of the forest and was amazed at how calm the boy seemed. Almost gracefully traversing the terrain, as if he had done it a million times and could do so in his sleep. It was such a juxtaposition of character she became deeply entranced. His uncharacteristic agility swaying her into such a trance that it was enough to throw her off when suddenly the world began to spin and blur. But the feeling was gone as suddenly as it had come, unfortunately taking Stiles with it. She had one job. It was supposed to be an easy job. Of course it wouldn’t be an easy job. In her vertigo, the boy had vanished. Or had he lost her?

  
Cursing inwardly, Nat spun in a quick circle, trying to get her bearings, pulling out a flashlight and scrolling it across the ground, looking for any sign of the boy's tracks. Breathing a sigh of relief upon spotting the first signs of footprints, she followed them with haste, trying valiantly not to think about how abruptly the forest around her had become all noise. The quiet and calm that had once been falling away to screech owls and angry trees knocking and scraping branches beneath the somehow dimmer moonlight, forming shadowy, spindly arms and fingers across the ground. A small tendril of fear slivered down her spine as she quickened her pace, hoping to be fast enough to quell the worry in her gut.

  
She wasn’t.

  
Nat was so focused on following her path and ignoring the terrifying whispers in the leaves of the trees that she was completely thrown off by the sudden and deafening silence. A blinding light flashing hot and white just beyond the trees in front of her. As light and silence settled, she blinked back the spots in her eyes, fighting to regain both sight and composure. As soon as she could see well enough to walk steady, she made a break for the direction of the light.

  
She hit the clearing at a dead sprint, coming to a stop at the border of surrounding trees, instantly locking onto what looked to be a smoldering pile of leaves. Without thinking, she quickly pulled her gun and advanced forward, only to come to a grinding halt four feet from the target. From Stiles. Only it wasn’t just Stiles; it was Stiles with a knife in his gut. It was Stiles covered in leaves and ash and dirt and blood, too much blood on the outside, which should be on the inside. And for a terrifying moment, she thought she had failed one of the only people in the world she trusted with her life, who found her and saved her and only needed this one thing. To keep his nephew safe. This boy, who found death and war too quickly, who lost so much in such a short amount of time, and guilt fluttered through her gut before she could bring herself to inspect closer.

  
Resting her hand on the pulse point in his neck, she nearly collapsed in relief as she felt a pulse too slow within skin too hot to quell all her worry but steady enough that she was able to catch her breath. Putting her gun back in its holster, she was quick to move the boy to lay on his back, pulling him from his oddly slumped position and into one that made him look like he was merely resting. Well… if you didn't count the knife still sticking out of his stomach.  
Natasha was torn and debated silently with herself on whether to pull the bone from him or leave it in.

  
Making a decision, she reached to grab the handle of the bone, only for it to crumble to dust at her slight touch, leaving behind nothing but what looked to be a scar months old in its place. There was nothing for her to do, no visible wounds, not even a scratch. The only thing worrying was the temperature of his skin, which was once too warm to the touch, but now had begun to heat rapidly. Almost burning the tips of her fingers as she brushed them across his face, rubbing the ash from its surface. So worried was she about this noticeable change that she didn’t even catch the silent stalking of a predator in her periphery. The only warning of the attack was the static on the back of her neck, a reflex from years of sustained vigilance. But She wasn't quick enough to stop the heavy blow to her cranium.

 

  
————

 

  
Bucky Barnes sat in a tree, about three seconds away from smashing every electronic device on him and questioning every decision he had made in his life that had led him to this moment. First the watch pinged, then his phone, then the stupid earpiece. He had tried turning them off, but damnit if Stark didn’t immediately turn it back on. He had finally just given up when Jarvis spoke in reprimand, forcing the assassin to answer his phone as he contemplated the merits of smashing his head into the trunk of the tree he was perched on.  
As soon as the screen lit up, Stark's face, too close to the camera, was one shade away from paper white, and he almost felt guilty for ignoring his calls so long. Almost.

  
“Where the FUCK have you been, Tin Man? I’ve been calling and trying to find you for the last three days!” Tony yelled, sounding moments away from a melt down.

  
“I read your messages. It’s fine.I’ve got everything under control… And if anyone is a ‘ _tinman_ ’ it’s you.” Bucky snarked back briefly glancing down at Tony’s chest.

  
“Name calling discrepancies aside Sergeant Rustbucket, if I hadn’t gotten fed up and had Jarvis ping your location, I would be more worried… How did you get out there, anyway? I’ve been looking for you since Phil got back. Steve didn’t even know where you were.”

  
Bucky snorted into the phone, rolling his eyes. “Steve doesn’t EVER know where I am, unless he is screaming, because I snuck up on him. Again.”

  
On the screen, Tony's head cocked to the side, grin spreading on his face as he seemed to recall the last scare encounter with smarmy fondness. “True, but I still don’t know how, when, or why, you are in Beacon Hills right now. Don’t think I didn’t notice the deflection, which was, let's be honest, halfhearted at best. You're a super spy for Christ's sake.”

  
Bucky let his head fall against the tree with a loud thunk. “Ex-spy! And I was curious about what Phil’s family would look like, so I… I stowed away and skulked around.” The admission was like sand, and he felt a bit embarrassed for letting his curiosity get to him, but out of all the people Bucky had met, Phil was the weirdest. He seemed so normal, but somehow managed to come out of every encounter almost unscathed, and apparently, according to Tony and Pepper, he was supposedly dead for a year. And wasn’t that just all kinds of unnatural? But nobody talked about it. So anything he found on Phil, he had to look up himself. It was like he didn’t exist, had never existed. It was strange, okay? Bucky was an ex super spy, and S.H.E.I.L.D has files on him for days. So forgive him if he was beyond a little intrigued that the crafty bastard actually had family. Not to mention, an almost mundanely normal family. A brother-in-law who was (had been) sheriff to a small town, and a nephew with good grades and an uncanny ability to find trouble. It was all very normal, until two years ago, when apparently werwolves came to light. But who was he to judge? He was a genetic experiment with a cybernetic arm. No room to judge. He’d been alive too long and seen too much to have that right. Slowly his mind spiraled down into the depths of his past.

  
The sharp static of Tony yelling through the receiver brought him back from his rumination of the lives he had lived... and ended.

  
“I swear to god if you are ignoring me right now, I will put on the suit and fly down there myself, Fury be damned!”

  
Bucky blinked, and looked down at the screen, trying not to laugh at Tony, who was red faced and breathing heavy. “It wasn’t on purpose… you just start talking, and my mind takes it as automatic permission to stop listening.”

  
Tony sputtered, “I’ll sick Cap and his righteousness on you! Don’t think I won’t!” Sighing, Tony slid down into his chair. “You know how he gets: He was worried, too, you know? Don’t just leave without saying anything.” Pausing, he smirked slightly. “Although, I do owe him a twenty.”

  
At the long pause, Bucky rolled his eyes. “Alright, I’ll bite. Why do you owe him money?”

  
“Because he bet a twenty, that you had followed Nat to wherever it was she went off to,” Tony admitted, albeit gleefully.

  
Bucky just wanted to punch him in his smug face. Opening his mouth to speak, he stopped, snapping his head up, feeling the air in the woods around him shift. Natasha, whom he was shadowing, had begun walking away from her post outside the Stilinski residence. A deviation of her normal routine that set off all kinds of alarm bells to Bucky, so he shut off his phone before Tony could freak out and decided to follow at a distance. Just to be safe. The forest felt restless, but it was so silent, it made him wonder if even the crickets were afraid.

  
He hadn’t even been following along for 15 minutes before the forest exploded in a cacophony of noises as, not twenty meters away both Natasha and Stiles vanished from his line of sight in a flurry of movement and leaves. Trees and debris swirled around, swallowing them up into the forest, and just like that, they were gone. As if it never happened, the forest around him, free from the stale still air, the life of night was back. Chirping crickets, calling owls and all.

  
He was not proud of what happened next, but there were no signs of Natasha or the boy, no tracks, nothing. So he did the only thing an assassin and war-bred boy of many years in field could do: he panicked.

  
The call to Tony was filled with too much yelling and not enough communicating, and by the time it ended, they were both just that much closer to panic, but Tony sent him the Tracker map he had installed in almost every bit of technology each Avenger carried with them, for precisely this reason, and they both breathed a sigh of relief that wherever they were going, or whatever took them, wasn’t smart enough to divest them of their equipment.

  
It was worrying, however, how the tracker seemed to be moving too fast, even for Natasha’s top speeds, which meant either car or supernatural influence. Tony, as he hung up to call Phil, bet both.

  
Bucky thought Tony might have a bit of a gambling problem, but didn’t disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i realize this is a bit short... but I'm really trying. I haven't been in a very write-y mood, but i really am trying. i won't drop this i swear. thanks guys.

**Author's Note:**

> (i am the worst at this) i have never done this before...  
> this basically takes place in season 5, and the attack on the sheriff goes a little differently. (he dies) and scott is the worst. and obviously Stiles doesn't handle it well.  
> Stiles has the world shit on him, and all he has left is his uncle phil  
> scott should be ashamed of himself.  
> and stiles literally starts to drown until new friends made literally pull him out of it.  
> seriously, feel free to tell me i suck... and I'm trying my hand at my first fanfic... and... its gonna be slow going and riddled with errors...  
> *** also I messed with the timeline of season 5 to suit me, and i have already killed Valack he dies how he did in the show.... just with less help from everyone and more because stiles acted first*** ill get to explaining it.


End file.
